


The Ominous Silence

by mitchpell



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Asthma, Asthma Attacks, Asthmatic Scott McCall (Teen Wolf), Background Relationships, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Epic Bromance, Episode: s05e06 Required Reading, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Pre-Canon, dog attack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-15 16:20:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29438889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mitchpell/pseuds/mitchpell
Summary: Five times Scott's asthma almost killed him and one time it did.The rough draft of this fic is completed.  I'll be posting individual chapters once they are edited and beta read.  Tags will also be adjusted with each chapter.
Relationships: Melissa McCall & Scott McCall, Rafael McCall & Scott McCall, Scott McCall & Stiles Stilinski, Sheriff Stilinski & Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 18
Kudos: 24





	1. The First Attack

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to all of the amazing folks on the WTH and Teen Wolf Legacy discords, especially [ultralillylove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultralillylove/pseuds/ultralillylove) and [ loubug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubug/pseuds/loubug) for being my Teen Wolf beta readers. Without you this story would not be possible.
> 
> Special thanks to [coffee_mage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_mage/pseuds/coffee_mage) for all the help as my beta reader and medical advisor! You are beyond amazing.

Raf sighed with relief as he threw the car in park and killed the engine. He sat there for a moment, leaning back against the headrest, and allowing his eyes to drift close. He was so god-damned tired. Between Scott refusing to sleep through the night and all the bullshit at work, he was beyond stressed and completely worn out. It had taken all of his considerable willpower to not hole up on the break-room couch and sleep instead of coming home. Unfortunately, Melissa had the late shift tonight. In fact, she was already gone, and with childcare being akin to a second mortgage, they couldn’t afford to keep the sitter longer than was strictly necessary.

Letting out another long-suffering sigh, Raf undid his seatbelt and climbed out of the car. He moved slowly up the walk and front porch steps, grimacing as the wood creaked beneath his feet. He was hoping, praying even, that Scott still might be asleep. His naps usually didn’t run this long, but if there was any chance, Raf didn’t want to risk making a lot of noise. Luck was not working in his favor, for as soon as he opened the door Scott came bounding out of the living room. He paused in the archway, a large stuffed dog clenched in his hand, before a big smile pulled at his lips. Despite his weariness, Raf couldn’t help but smile in return.

“Whatcha got there, Bud?” he asked, forcing a level of pep into the question.

“Dalmatian,” he squealed, as he held the toy out for Raf to see before cuddling it to his chest, his little body twisting back and forth as he hugged it.

“A dalmatian! That’s cool,” he said as he glanced around the kitchen and hallway. “Where’s Naomi?”

“She had go pee,” he enthused, which caused Raf to chuckle. “Come play with me, Daddy,” Scott wheedled as he inched a step back into the living room.

“Just give me a minute, Bud,” Raf replied as he pulled out a kitchen chair, so he could sit down and take off his shoes.

He had just tossed them toward the door when Naomi came down the hall from the bathroom. “Hey,” he greeted as she entered the kitchen. She and Melissa had become quick friends while in nursing school and were now co-workers at the hospital. She babysat for them when she was able, watched Scott for a handful of hours when his and Melissa’s schedules required it and she was available.

“Raf,” she replied cordially. That’s the way she always was with him, cordial and stiff. It was obvious she didn’t care much for him, but for the life of him he didn’t know why.

“Thanks for watching him for us,” he said as he leaned back in his chair.

“No problem. He’s an awesome little guy, and I’m happy to help out.”

He nodded, giving her a tight lipped smile, before a yawn forced its way past his lips.

Naomi frowned at him. “No offense, Raf, but you look like- crap,” she told him, after a quick glance towards the living room.

Raf closed his eyes and sighed. “He’s just not sleeping. I swear he’s up half the night coughing. It's exhausting.”

“Have you guys taken him back to his pediatrician?”

“Melissa made another appointment, I think it's tomorrow, maybe Thursday. They’re supposed to run some tests.” He shrugged in a mixture of helplessness and frustration. “I don’t want them to find anything, but at the same time, if they don’t find anything- then they can’t help him.”

“From what Melissa’s told me, it sounds like it could be asthma, which is usually pretty manageable. If it is, Beacon Memorial’s got a great pulmonologist. He’ll get it under control.”

Raf gave her another tight lipped smile, trying to take comfort in her words, and failing. The thought that something was wrong, that Scott wasn’t well, ate away at him. There was so much that he could and would do to protect his son. This, however, this was out of his control, and that thought terrified him.

“Well,” she announced, breaking the awkward silence that had settled between them, “I’m going to get out of here.” She turned to leave, but then hesitated, something drawing her back to the conversation. “Seriously, don’t worry.”

“Yeah,” he said distractedly, unable to fully pull himself from his thoughts. “Thanks again.”

“No problem.”

As Naomi slipped out the door, Scott’s impatient call came from the living room. “Daddy, come!”

Raf sighed, tilting his head back to stare at the ceiling for a moment, as he pushed aside his fatigue.

“Daddy!”

“Yeah, I’m coming, Buddy,” he called as he forced himself to his feet. Removing his gun and holster, he deposited the rig on top of the fridge, and made his way into the living room. He stripped off his jacket and tie, tossing the garments on the couch, before kneeling down next to his son.

Scott was surrounded by an entire zoo of plastic and stuffed animals, leaving Raf to wonder when and how they had accumulated so many. “Which one do I get to play with?” he asked as he plucked a plastic zebra from the pile.

“Not da zebra,” Scott said as he pulled the toy back out of Raf’s hand.

“Not the zebra? Then how about the camel?”

Scott shook his head, coughing slightly as he once again plucked the toy away. “You watch me,” he instructed Raf as he continued to line up his toys.

“I don’t get to play?”

“No, you just watch,” Scott confirmed.

“Just watch,” he parroted in mock indignation. “What if I don’t want to just watch?” He reached out and grasped ahold of Scott’s little legs, dragging him around to better face him and pulling him close. “What if I want to play?” he demanded as he reached for his tummy, eliciting a giggle from the 3 year-old.

“Can’t I play?” Raf asked again, as he continued to tickle, catching Scott as he toppled over backwards in laughter. His belly newly exposed, he leaned down and blew a raspberry. “You gonna let me play?” he kept asking as he continued his onslaught, not letting up until Scott started coughing. Grinning he leaned back to let his son catch his breath.

“You ok, Bud?” he asked when the fit continued, seeming to grow worse instead of getting better. “Hey, hey,” Raf soothed as he pulled Scott up into a sitting position and rubbed at his back. “Just relax, ok, calm down.”

It didn’t stop, even sitting upright, the coughs continued. Scott was taking short stuttering breaths, his whole body heaving with the effort of it. Raf watched helplessly, unsure of how or what to do to help.

“Feels- funny,” Scott choked out, quiet and raspy, as he rubbed at his chest.

“Your chest feels funny?” Raf asked, barely managing to keep the panic out of his voice.

Scott only nodded in return, his little face paling and casting a bluish tint to his lips.

“What do you mean? How does it feel funny?” Raf waited one beat, and then two, but Scott either couldn’t or wouldn’t answer. He just stared at him, his dark brown eyes begging Raf to fix it, to make it better. All Raf could do was sit there, like a deer caught in headlights, unable to think or move, trapped by the sheer terror of the situation. He’d been in terrible situations before, where you either acted or died, and there was no way in hell he was going to let Scott die.

“Ok” he whispered, as he scooped his son into his arms and pushed himself up off the floor. “You’re ok. Daddy’s got you,” he told him as he snatched his keys off the kitchen table and all but ran out the door.

“You’re ok,” he kept repeating, over and over and over, as he struggled to buckle Scott into his car seat, his fingers fumbling with the harness. He almost gave up on the fucking thing, sacrificing safety in the interest of time, before it snapped into place. With Scott secured finally, he jumped behind the wheel, threw the car in reverse, and gunned the engine.

*~*

Raf drove quickly, reckless, but without abandoning all caution, as he maneuvered through the residential streets. He narrowly missed taking out a mailbox, swerving to avoid being t-boned when he blew through a stop sign. “Fuck!” he muttered loudly, as he gripped the steering wheel with white knuckles, before remembering to throw his light up onto the dash and flip on his siren.

He made the fifteen minute drive to Beacon Hills Family Practice in less than ten. Raf pulled right up to the front door, bringing the car to a stop broadside across the yellow zone. He grabbed Scott out of the backseat and bounded up the three steps up to the entrance. Yanking the door open, he burst into the office, all but shoving an elderly woman away from the reception window.

“Something’s wrong with my son,” he told the receptionist, ignoring the older woman’s complaints.

“Sir, I’m going to have-“

“No, he’s not breathing,” Raf interrupted, turning Scott so she could see his blue lips.

“Go around to the door on the right,” she told him, before hustling out of the office.

Raf turned, bumping into the poor woman again in his rush. “Sorry,” he offered as he pushed past her and hurried over to the entrance to the exam rooms.

The ten to fifteen seconds he waited at the door felt like minutes. So much so that he had to force himself not pace, before one of the doctors opened it and ushered him back. She didn’t take them to an exam room, but to the little alcove where they measure your height and weight.

“Have a seat there,” she told him, gesturing to the chair sitting beside the scale. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t- we were just playing,” he explained while she tilted Scott’s head back and shined a light down his throat. “Then he started coughing, and the next thing I knew he couldn’t breath.”

“Did he inhale something? Or is there a history of breathing problems?” she asked, as she moved from his mouth to listen to his chest.

“No- well, we don’t-. He’s been coughing at night. They wanted to run some tests.”

She nodded, before stepping away and pulling several boxes out of the overhead cupboards. “What’s your son’s name?”

“Scott.” Raf watched anxiously as she connected a short fat tube to a face mask, before taking an inhaler out of one of the boxes. She shook the canister, then discharged it 2 or 3 times, before connecting it to the other end of the tube. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I think he’s having an asthma attack,” she replied, as she wheeled a stool in front of them and sat down.

“Hey, Scott,” she called gently. “Dad’s going to hold this mask over your nose and mouth, so I can give you some medicine to help you breathe, ok?”

She held the contraption up for him to see, but Scott didn’t respond. He almost seemed to be in a stupor, just sitting there on Raf’s lap. Mouth wide and nostrils flaring, his whole body heaved with the effort to breath.

“Hold this over his mouth and nose,” she instructed.

Once he’d done so, she depressed the canister once more and released the medication into the tube. She had him keep the mask in place for about fifteen to twenty seconds, giving Scott time to inhale as much of the drug as possible.

“Ok, Dad,” she instructed as she took the apparatus from him, “we’re going to do this every 2 minutes until we have him breathing a little better or the ambulance gets here.”

“That’s it?” he asked as she wheeled back, giving them space. He wrapped his arms reflexively around his son, unnerved at how his small body labored and at how little he could do to help.

“Unless he starts declining, there’s not much more we can do,” she explained, her tone apologetic. “We just need to keep him stable until the ambulance comes.”

Raf nodded, unwittingly tightening his hold on Scott.

“Not too tight there,” she quietly reprimanded, “we don’t want to make it even harder for him.”

Embarrassed, Raf felt his cheeks coloring. “Sorry.”

She smiled reassuringly at him. “It’s ok.”

*~*

They used the inhaler twice more before Scott started squirming, pushing the mask away before he’d breathed enough of the medication and trying to bury his face in Raf’s chest. Color had returned to his lips and his entire body was no longer heaving with each labored breath.

“Let’s give him a break,” Dr. Gehrt commented as Raf struggled to hold the toddler still, “while I take a listen.”

Scott, however, was still having none of it. He continued to push and squirm, being altogether uncooperative. “Scott, you need to hold still,” Raf scolded, whilst the doctor trailed after him with her stethoscope.

“He’s definitely loosened up,” she stated, though how she’d managed to hear anything was beyond Raf. “There’s still a faint wheeze, but it's much less pronounced.”

“EMTs are here,” one of the office staff announced, the paramedics trailing in behind him.

Raf waited impatiently as the EMTs assessed Scott whilst being debriefed by Dr. Gehrt. Now that his son was breathing easier, much of the tension had lifted, leaving room for frustration that everything seemed to have come to an apparent standstill. “Do I still need to take him to the ER?” he asked finally, his tone more clipped than he would have liked.

“I would highly recommend it, yes,” Dr. Gehrt answered. “He sounds pretty good right now, but relapses are not uncommon. Plus they’ll want to run some tests, verify what exactly happened, so we can prevent it from happening again.”

“We’re about ready to go,” one of the EMTs interrupted. “You want to carry him out?”

Raf nodded, pushing himself to his feet and shifting Scott over to his hip. The toddler wrapped his little legs tightly around Raf’s midsection and hid his face in the crook of Raf’s neck.

“I hope you feel better, Scott,” Dr. Gehrt called to him, as she gently rubbed at his back.

“Thank you,” Raf offered as he extended a hand.

“Absolutely,” she replied, smiling as she accepted the handshake. “I’m glad I could help.”

He gave her a tight lipped smile, before following the EMTs out of the office.

*~*

It was as they were exiting the building that he realized two things. The first being that he’d left his car running. The second was that he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “I, uh, I need to move my car,” he told the medics, as he stood awkwardly beside the vehicle, the rough pavement biting into the bottoms of his socked feet.

“I’ll get it for you,” one of them assured him as another guided him further towards the ambulance.

Raf nodded his thanks, before allowing himself to be ushered into the back of the bus. The ordeal had left him completely drained and Scott fussy, so he found it easy to relinquish the task to someone else. As they got underway, he fished his phone out of his pocket to call Melissa.

“Hey,” he greeted stiffly when she picked up, unsure of how to start the conversation and settling for direct and to the point. “I’m headed into the hospital. Scott had- I don’t know, most likely an asthma attack-”

There was a moment of silence before she asked, her voice laced with concern that betrayed her struggle to remain calm, “is he alright?”

“He seems to be. I took him to that Beacon Hills Family Practice. They got it under control pretty quickly. We’re taking him to the ER more as a precautionary. We should be there in a few minutes.”

“Ok,” he could almost picture her nodding, lips pinched tightly together as she processed the information. “I’ll meet you in the ambulance bay,” she told him after a moment, before ending the call.

Raf sighed, as he slipped his phone back into his pocket. He tightened his grip around his son, pulling him close and tucking Scott’s head under his chin, before kissing his forehead.


	2. Roxy’s Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A detailed look at the attack on Scott and Roxy depicted in episode 5x6, “Required Reading.”
> 
> Warning: Canonical levels of violence, which result in the death of a pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all of the amazing folks on the WTH and Teen Wolf Legacy discords, especially [ultralillylove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultralillylove/pseuds/ultralillylove) and [ loubug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubug/pseuds/loubug) for being my Teen Wolf beta readers. Without you this story would not be possible.
> 
> Special thanks to [coffee_mage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_mage/pseuds/coffee_mage) for all the help as my beta reader and medical advisor! You are beyond amazing.

Melissa couldn’t help the fond smile that crept across her face as she watched Scott struggle to attach the leash to Roxy’s collar. The pup was so eager, her excitement making it near impossible for her to keep all four feet planted on the ground. Scott was almost as animated, only his enthusiasm was relayed through laughter rather than circling and tail wagging.

“Hold still, Roxy,” he scolded playfully, his words carrying no heat, and almost serving to compound the problem rather than fix it.

This was all part of their new routine. Scott took Roxy, a consolation gift given to help ease the stress of Raf's frequent absences and the near-constant fighting which ensued as a result of them, for a walk every day after school and twice on Saturdays and Sundays. It made her nervous, letting him go out on his own, for more reasons than one. She worried something might happen; that he could get lost or hit by a car, possibly kidnapped. Beneath those normal, if somewhat irrational, parental fears, she worried about his asthma. She worried that, while out there on his own, he’d have a severe attack.

Despite doing everything they possibly could, Scott’s asthma wasn’t well-controlled. They worked with Dr. Casey, who was recognized as the best pediatric pulmonologist in the area. Scott was an ideal patient. He faithfully took his control medications, did his best to avoid his triggers, and generally did not complain about the restrictions they placed upon him. In spite of their best efforts, he still needed his rescue inhaler almost daily and at least once or twice a week at night. Thankfully, he hadn’t suffered a severe attack since he was three, but she lived in constant fear that a moderate or even a mild one would escalate.

She refused, however, to let her fears hold him back. He was almost ten years old, an age where most children typically experienced increased independence and self-reliance. Living with a severe and life-threatening illness, and in what had essentially become a single-parent household, was going to make those skills all the more important. So she allowed it, granting him this small step in responsibility and maturity, even if it was the most nerve wracking thirty minutes of her day.

“Hold it!” Melissa called from where she leaned against the counter in the kitchen, halting him just as his hand reached for the doorknob. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“I have my phone and my inhaler,” Scott replied, brandishing said objects for her to see, before shoving them back into his coat pockets.

“Ok, but what else are you supposed to do before you leave the house?” she prompted.

He hesitated for a moment, eyes casting to the side in a clear effort to remember what he’d forgotten. “I did my peak flow,” he bit out, his cheeks immediately coloring at the slight outburst.

“Hey,” she countered, her tone stern yet forgiving, as she waited for him to meet her eye. “Any idea why I didn’t know that?”

“Because I didn’t write it down?” he asked tentatively, his words losing all defensiveness.

“Because you didn’t write it down,” she confirmed, as she grabbed the pen and chart off the fridge. “What did you score?”

“Eighty-three,” he replied happily.

“That’s good!” A green score, no matter how low, was always counted as a win. She jotted the number down in the appropriate column and returned it to the fridge. “Now, remind me of the rules.”

“Make sure I have my phone and my inhaler. Stick to the loop. No stopping or talking to strangers. Call you immediately if I have any symptoms.”

“Ok,” Melissa relented with a smile, heart torn with a mixture of pride and grief at how quickly he was growing up. “You two be safe and have fun.”

Scott smiled back, bright and sincere, calling out a quick “bye, Mom” before bounding out the door with Roxy in tow.

*~*

The pair trotted down the walk and turned left, heading along the sidewalk that ran parallel to Williamson Road. It was a beautiful Saturday afternoon; the early October air was warm without being overbearingly hot. Scott lifted his face up to the sun, smiling as Roxy tugged on his arm, sniffing at every mailbox and street sign. It wasn’t long before they were rounding onto Pine, the slope of the sidewalk increasing with the only hill along their route. They passed familiar houses and other dogs, some barking at them on chains or from behind fences. Sometimes it made him nervous, but his mom and he had first driven and then walked the route together many times, making sure it was safe.

Scott never saw the attack coming; there was no warning bark, no growl. All he knew was that Roxy suddenly yanked hard on her leash, pulling him roughly to the left. The force of it jarred his shoulder, knocking him off balance and causing him to fall. Hot pain blossomed along his palms and knees as the rough concrete tore open his skin. The leash continued to jerk and pull at the loop around his wrist and within his clenched fist, accompanied by growls and snarls. Looking up, he watched in shocked horror as Roxy brawled with a big black dog.

“Roxy!” he screamed, as he struggled to his feet, the constant yanking on his arm nearly toppling him again.

Without thought or hesitation, Scott grabbed a hold of the big dog and desperately tried to pull it away from Roxy. It turned quickly on him, slipping from his grasp and knocking him back to the ground. He hit hard, the impact causing his head to smack off the ground. Scott gasped as pain erupted across the back of his skull, bringing tears to his eyes. He’d barely registered the injury, however, when he felt the beast latch onto his leg. He cried out as the dog’s teeth sank deep into his calf, piercing the skin and muscle. It pulled at him once, twice, tearing his flesh as it drug him across the ground.

Scott tried to scream as Roxy leapt at the other dog’s throat, biting and ripping, making it let go of his leg, but he couldn’t force the air out of his lungs. All he could do is lay there, chest heaving, as the two dogs went at it. Their growls and snarls intensified, then gave way to a high-pitched yelping that rang loud in his ears, before fading to silence.

Scott rolled onto his side and found Roxy, lying limp, not far from him. Blood stained the soft sandy brown fur around her throat and belly and her front paw laid at a funny angle.

“Roxy?” he whispered, his breath coming in short shallow gasps. The tightness in his chest made it near impossible to push the word out. He reached out to her, his fingers barely brushing along the fur on her chest, the soft touch eliciting a pitiful whimper.

*~*

Noah sighed, glancing over at Stiles as he flicked on his turn signal and turned down Pine Street. “Sorry about this, Kiddo,” he apologized for what must have been the third time since they’d left the house. He grimaced as soon as he said the words, the dishonesty behind them leaving a foul taste in his mouth.

It wasn’t that it was a lie, at least, not entirely. He did feel bad about dragging Stiles out of the house on a Saturday. It was the reason for leaving, or lack thereof, that wasn’t completely truthful.

He didn’t need to go into the office; there wasn’t an emergency or a pressing new case. He was just using it as an excuse. An excuse to hide the sad truth that he couldn’t stand to be home. He couldn’t stand to be in that shell of a house. Where her memories haunted him. Where he was forced to acknowledge the daunting prospect of having to raise his son alone. Where the only shelter from his grief and the stress and worry could be found in a bottle of Jack Daniels.

He didn’t want to drink. He had seen over and over the consequences of choosing the bottle, had lived through them first hand with his own father. He didn’t want to be that, not for Stiles, not for himself, at least not today. So, if he wasn’t going to drown himself in whiskey, the next best thing was work.

“It’s ok,” Stiles replied absently, as he stared out the window.

Noah frowned, equal parts relieved and disturbed at the despondent answer. Relieved, because Stiles had actually spoken. Disturbed, because the scant words were so unlike his normally verbose, hyperactive, son.

“I’m sure we can- what is that?” he asked, interrupting himself at the sight of a large black dog tearing into something along the side of the road. He quickly checked for traffic before pulling over onto the burm; as he did, he noticed the small body lying close to the commotion. “Aw, hell,” he muttered as he reached for his radio. “Dispatch this is Unit 1. I’ve got a dog attack on Pine Street near Williamson. Requesting animal control and paramedics to this location. Over.”

“Roger that, Unit 1,” Tara called back. “Animal Control and paramedics dispatched to your location. Pine Street near Williamson.”

Unbuckling his seatbelt, Noah turned to Stiles. “Stay in the car, you hear me?” Stiles nodded, his eyes full of the eager curiosity that had been missing for months.

Climbing quickly out of the car, Noah placed his hand on the butt of his pistol and cautiously approached the scene. The large dog, a shepherd by the looks of it, had a smaller one pinned to the ground, its jaws locked tight around the other’s neck. The body was that of a boy, who looked to be about Stiles’s age. His pants were torn and bloody, but he was awake and breathing.

Noah knew he had to neutralize the shepherd first or risk the boy, and himself, being attacked. So he moved in carefully, taking advantage of the dog’s distraction and grabbing a hold of its hind legs. The brute immediately let go of its prey and tried to turn on him, jerking and pulling the trapped limbs in an effort to free itself. Noah held tight, making sure he had a firm grip on the animal before wheelbarrowing it backwards away from both the boy and his dog.

Once he had the shepherd a safe distance from the others, he contemplated how to secure it. It had no collar. The house they were in front of had no fence, chain, or tie-out cable. That really only left him one option.

“Stile-” he started, cutting his yell short as he looked back at the cruiser and found his son standing no more than six feet from him--no more than six feet from the dog that had already attacked one kid, far from the safety of the vehicle he was supposed to be tucked away in. Biting back on the harsh words that threatened to spew forth, words borne of frustration and fear, Noah forced himself to focus on the task at hand. “I need you to close the front doors and open the back ones,” he instructed, projecting the calm authority into his voice that came with years of being a police officer.

Stiles stared wide-eyed at the dog for a moment, before jumping into action, stumbling and almost falling on his way back to the car in his eagerness to help. Once he had the rear seat opened up and the front secure, Noah nodded towards the front of the vehicle. “Stand up by the hood. When I tell you, shut this door here. You got it?” Stiles nodded, rushing to the front of the cruiser as instructed.

With his son in position, Noah backed up to the car and crawled into the backseat, dragging the shepherd in behind him. It wasn’t an easy task, shuffling across the bench, unable to use his hands or lean forward for fear of getting bit, with a eighty pound dog in tow, but he managed. He had to completely withdraw out the far side, before the brute was in far enough to get the door shut.

“Close it now!” He waited for Stiles to push the door shut, and then, in one fluid motion, shoved the dog forward and retreated, pulling back as quickly as possible and slamming the last door closed.

*~*

With the aggressor safely confined to the police cruiser, Noah turned back to Stiles. “I want you to stay with the cruiser, alright?” Stiles nodded even as he took a step forward to follow Noah over to the two victims. “Stiles!” he barked, startling the ten year old back. “Stay with the car.”

When he was confident that his son would stay put, Noah jogged back over to the boy. He’d moved, which Noah hoped was a good sign, that his injuries couldn’t be too severe if he was mobile. His hand was outstretched towards his dog, a gnarled mess of fur and blood, who lay far too still next to him. Grimacing at the gruesome scene, Noah forced his attention back to the boy. He knelt down beside him and gently rolled him onto his back.

“No,” the kid choked, the word barely recognizable through his short rapid breaths. He clung desperately to the leash, now stained in blood and gripped tightly in his hand. 

“It’s ok,” Noah soothed as he gently pulled him away, “I’m going to try and help her, but I need to check you out first.”

Now that he was able to get a proper look at the boy, it became readily apparent that he couldn’t breathe. Shock was Noah’s first thought, but he didn’t think the boy’s injuries were severe enough to cause it. His leg was torn up pretty badly--enough to warrant stitches he was sure--but it didn’t appear to be life threatening. Other than some scrapes and abrasions, he could find no other wounds or signs of trauma. His second thought was a panic attack, brought to mind by the episodes that Stiles had been going through since Claudia died. 

“Hey,” he called, his tone firm and calm. “Look at me.” It took a minute, but eventually those eyes, puffy and red and glazed over with fear, turned to look at him. “You’re ok. You just need to calm down. Take deep breaths in and out.”

Noah breathed in deep through his nose, held it for a second, and then exhaled slowly through his mouth, modeling the technique Stiles’s doctor had shown them. It worked, sometimes, but after about four or five cycles, it was obvious this wasn’t going to be one of those times. In fact, it almost seemed as if the kid was getting worse. His whole body heaved with each labored breath, drawing in his chest and stomach, and straining the muscles in his neck.

“That’s Scott,” Stiles announced suddenly, causing Noah to jump.

“Stiles-” he started to reprimand.

“He has asthma.”

Noah closed his mouth, whatever rebuke he was about to offer quickly dying on his lips. “Are you sure?”

Stiles nodded. “Mrs. Noble reminds him to take his inhaler everyday before gym class.”

“Do you have your inhaler, Scott?” Noah asked, turning back to the boy and immediately searching his person. To his relief, he found the thing safely tucked in a coat pocket, seemingly undamaged from the scuffle. As he looked it over, he hesitated, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he didn’t actually know how to use one.

The sound of police sirens approaching from a distance, the knowledge that backup was about to arrive, and that EMTs would soon follow, gave Noah the confidence to push forward. He gently slid his hand under the boy's head, tilted it up, put the mouthpiece to his lips, and depressed the canister. He heard the telltale hiss, that sudden burst, similar to that of an aerosol can, and then nothing. He looked back and forth between the boy’s, between Scott’s, chest and face, searching for any indication that the thing had worked. There was none.

“Sheriff?”

Noah looked up to find Deputy Cross jogging towards them. “Cross,” he ordered, his growing concern for Scott sharpening his tone, “radio dispatch. Find out what the ETA is on that ambulance.”

Cross nodded, before keying the mic on his shoulder. “Dispatch this is Unit 5, on scene with Sheriff Stilinski. What’s the ETA on the ambulance to this location?”

“Copy that Unit 5,” Tara’s voice called back. “ETA on your ambulance is 5 minutes.”

“Roger that,” Cross responded before turning back to Noah. “What’ve we got, Sir?”

“Dog attack,” Noah replied, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Kid’s leg’s pretty torn up, but more importantly, I can’t get his breathing under control.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“I don’t know. Stiles says he’s got asthma, but I tried the inhaler and it didn’t work.”

Noah watched as the Deputy looked over at Stiles, who was still hovering nearby, pacing back and forth and chewing on his fingernails, a look of horrified curiosity on his face. It was nothing, just a glance, barely enough to truly acknowledge that the kid was there, but there was still something about it. Something that didn’t quite sit right, like they were being judged, and it grated on Noah’s nerves.

“Sit him up,” Cross instructed, startling Noah out of his spiral as he knelt across from him and started lifting the kid. “It should help open his airways.”

Noah bit back the defensiveness that stewed in his gut and followed his Deputy’s lead, supporting Scott’s head as the two pulled him into a sitting position. They’d just gotten him upright when a panicked female voice called from down the street.

“Scott!”

*~*

Melissa busied herself with housework as she waited for Scott to return. She hated housework; vacuuming, dusting, scrubbing countertops, floors, and toilets. Before Scott was born, she’d avoided it all at all costs, putting chores off for days until even she was embarrassed by the state of things. They hadn’t lived in filth, far from it; but she wasn’t about to lose any sleep over a layer of dust on the entertainment center or a soap ring in the shower.

When Scott arrived, she made a conscientious effort to do better. The long shifts she worked for what felt like days on end, however, made it so that the last thing she wanted to do when she got home, or on her days off, was clean. In her opinion, her energies were best spent elsewhere, like spending quality time with her son. In theory she knew, like anything else, that there needed to be a balance, but balance was difficult to find and even harder to maintain. A situation that was made all the worse by Raf’s near-constant criticism and outright refusal to help.

Sighing, Melissa scrubbed vigorously at the kitchen counter, taking her frustrations out on the laminate and what she suspected was tomato sauce that was refusing to lift. She had just about given up on the stain when the wail of a siren caught her attention. Looking up, she glimpsed the flash of red and blue lights flying down the street. She froze at the sight of it, locked in place as fear took control of her.

There was no reason to believe or even suspect that it had anything to do with Scott, yet she knew. She couldn’t explain it, couldn’t rationalize it. She just knew that something was wrong. 

Dropping the sponge on the counter, Melissa jogged out of the house and down to the road. She hesitated at the end of the walk, trying to convince herself that she was just being paranoid, that Scott was fine. The dread, however, the dread that had settled in her stomach, that elevated her pulse and had her heart pounding in her chest, refused to let her believe it. She glanced back at the house, gripped in a moment of uncertainty, before giving in and heading off down Scott’s approved route.

She tried not to run, alternating between walking and jogging, angry at herself for what she perceived as irrational behavior and yet unable to make herself stop.

She should have just called him, she realized when she was halfway down Williamson. Just a quick check-in to make sure that he was ok, that he was safe. It was the reason she’d gotten him a cellphone, why she required him to carry it, and yet, in a moment of blind panic, she’d completely forgotten. Chastising herself for her own stupidity, she reached for her phone in her jeans pocket. She froze when she came up empty handed and she realized that she’d left it sitting on the kitchen table. She stood there for a second, torn between going back and continuing on. If she went back, she’d lose time, time that might matter if he was in trouble. If she didn’t and he or emergency services called she wouldn’t be able to answer. Reaching him seemed more important, so she pushed the phone from her mind and continued down the street. 

Approaching the corner, she caught the sight of flashing lights to her left, just a ways up Pine Street. From her current location, Melissa could just make out two officers, recognizable by their brown uniforms, huddled over something on the ground. There was a child pacing nearby, attention shifting from the officers to a light brown lump laying just behind them.

There was something about that mass on the ground, something that sat like lead in the pit of her stomach, and had her quickening her pace. She was only about thirty yards away when the officers shifted slightly, lifting whatever or whomever they were huddling over. She gasped, her hand coming up to her mouth, when she recognized Scott’s face, the shock of it momentarily slowly her steps.

“Scott!” she cried out, unable to keep the panic from her voice, as she broke into a sprint.

Melissa rushed up to him and dropped to her knees, practically knocking over one of the officers in the process. “Scott! Oh, Sweetheart, what happened? Are you ok?” she asked as she cupped his face, wiping at his tear-stained cheeks and running her fingers through his hair.

“M—om,” Scott wheezed, the word barely a whisper and nearly indiscernible through his ragged breaths.

“Ssh,” she soothed, smiling at him as she sniffed back tears that were threatening to fall. “Don’t try to talk.” It was obvious he was in the grip of a severe attack. Beyond the difficulty he had speaking and the spasms that wracked his entire torso with each inhalation, his nostrils were flared and she was sure that if she lifted his shirt she’d see retractions.

She took a measured breath, trying to compose herself so she could better address the situation, so she could better help him.

“Ma’am?” one of the officers asked gently, “this is your son?”

“Yes,” she barked, frustration and stress causing her to snap at the man as she dug through Scott’s pockets. “Where’s your inhaler, Baby?” she asked as calmly as she could manage, as the tears broke free and started streaming down her cheeks.

“Where’s his inhaler?” she yelled at two men, knowing that she wasn’t helping, that her agitation was only making things worse.

“It’s right here,” one of them told her, as he offered up the device. His tone was gentle and calm, which she both appreciated and despised. “I tried giving it to him, but it didn’t seem to do any good. We’ve got an ambulance on route. It should be here any second.”

“Thank you,” Melissa replied, as she took the inhaler, the words still somewhat clipped, but no less sincere, before she turned back to Scott.

“You need to try and take it again,” she told him as she helped guide the actuator to his lips. “Just do the best you can, ok.”

Scott nodded, before attempting to take the albuterol. The problem was that he couldn’t force enough air out of his lungs. He couldn’t inhale deep enough or hold his breath. He couldn’t do any of the things necessary to effectively deliver the medication. All Melissa could do was watch helplessly, knowing that there was nothing she could do to help.

“Where is that ambulance?” she demanded, just as sirens blared in the distance.

The sound of it loosened the knot that had formed in her gut and around her heart, the knot that had tightened with each of his labored breaths. “Help is coming, Sweetheart,” she assured him as she took his hand and squeezed it reassuringly. “You just hang in there.”

“Wha—bou—Rox—?” Scott asked, struggling to force the words out.

Melissa opened her mouth, hesitated, and then closed it without a response, suddenly acutely aware that she had no idea what exactly had happened. She’d noticed the blood that stained his clothes and the leash still clenched tightly in his hand. She’d seen his ripped and torn jeans, had caught glimpses of the damage to his leg beneath. All of that, however, had taken a backseat, had been pushed to the side to focus on his breathing. “What happened?” she asked, searching the faces around her for a response, as renewed tears streamed down her cheeks.

“They were attacked by a large dog,” one of the officers, the one who’d been doing all of the talking, informed her, his tone soft and kind.

“Roxy?” she asked, fearing the confirmation of what she already knew; she hadn’t seen or heard the dog since she’d arrived.

The officer hesitated, glancing quickly behind him, before turning back and solemnly shaking his head. “We’ll make sure she gets taken care of,” he assured her.

“Thank you,” she replied, as he stepped away, making room for the paramedics that had just arrived.

*~*

Melissa held Scott’s hand the entire trip to the hospital, as Baaklini worked to try to get his breathing under control. She knew Adam; it was impossible to work in the ER and not know the local paramedics. He was good, a little short and abrasive, not the greatest bedside manner, but that was irrelevant. What mattered was that he was one of the best, and she was grateful that Scott was his patient.

Despite Baaklini’s best efforts, however, Scott wasn’t improving, at least not by any significant metric. He continued to struggle, hovering somewhere between a moderate and severe attack. They’d put him on a nebulizer in an effort to more effectively deliver the albuterol, in addition to giving him a shot of methylprednisolone. Neither were doing much to help. His airway was still dangerously narrowed. His breath sounds, including the telltale wheeze, were distant and faint. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were pulled tight. His chest was still retracting, all accessory muscles straining with the effort to move air.

He’d just completed the second round of the albuterol from the nebulizer when they pulled into the ambulance bay. Melissa waited anxiously as Turner, another paramedic, and Baaklini removed Scott on the gurney before climbing quickly out of the back. She had to jog a few steps to catch up, managing to do so just as they breached the hospital doors.

“Mom?” Scott asked, as she retook his bloody hand, his words barely audible through his struggles to exhale.

“Shh, it’s ok, Sweetheart,” Melissa soothed, trying to quiet him. “You just need to breathe, ok.”

“Where’s- Roxy?”

Melissa hesitated, unsure of what to tell him. He’d asked several times now, and she kept avoiding giving him an answer, fearing that the stress and shock of the truth would exacerbate his condition. She thought of Roxy, bloody and still, where she lay on the ground. She didn’t know many of the details as to what had happened, but there was one thing of which she was absolutely certain. Roxy had saved Scott’s life. For that, she’d be forever in the dog’s debt. 

“Sweetheart,” she said as she squeezed his hand and then gently pulled the blood stained leash from it. “She didn’t make it.”

He looked at her in confusion and disbelief. “Where’s- Rox-?” he asked again, eyes welling with tears as he began to acknowledge the truth.

“Try not to talk,” she encouraged, as her own tears started falling anew. She looked away briefly, to wipe them away, irritated at herself for losing her composure yet again. His hand suddenly went slack in hers. Alarmed she glanced down to find him suddenly pale and unconscious with a bluish tint to his lips.

“Scott!” she called, unable to mask her panic. “Scott, you need to breathe!”

“Melissa,” someone ordered, as they took her by the shoulders and tried to pull her away. “You need to step back.”

“Breathe, Baby, breathe,” she begged, before being ripped away from him.

“Scott!” she yelled as she was forced back out into the hallway.

“Melissa!” someone all but yelled, giving her a firm shake and startling her back to herself. “You need to calm down.”

Melissa nodded, taking a deep shuddering breath as she pulled away from Naomi. She wiped at her nose and eyes and shook out her hands, trying to regain her composure.

“Scott’s going to want you in there,” Naomi scolded lightly, stating what Melissa already knew. “He’s going to need you in there. But right now? Right now, you’re just making things worse.”

“I know,” she choked out, sniffing and wiping at her eyes again. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Naomi told her, forcing a smile to try and lighten her words. “Just take a minute to get a hold of yourself and, when you’re ready, come back in.”

Melissa nodded, taking several more deep calming breaths in an effort to pull herself together. She could handle this. She’d seen worse. As an ER nurse, she’d worked on numerous patients in life-threatening conditions. This was no different, except for all the terrifying ways in which it was. “He’s going to be ok,” she whispered, assuring herself of what she hoped would be the truth. “We’ve been through this before; he’s going to be ok.”

“Damn straight he is,” Naomi assured her, “kid’s tough as nails.” She gave Melissa’s shoulder a brief squeeze, before turning and heading back into the room.

More in control, if not entirely calm, Melissa pulled Scott’s phone out of her pocket and flipped it open. She hesitated briefly, finger hovering over Raf’s speed-dial, before holding down the button. He would want to know, she told herself as it started to ring. It rang once and then twice before her call was declined and she was kicked to his voicemail.

Frustrated, she forced herself to bite back on her anger. She couldn’t be angry, well...she could, but she shouldn’t. It wasn’t like he could possibly know. Still, it was just so damn typical, for him to shove them aside as if they were irrelevant. Not that any of it mattered, at least right now.

“Can’t you even be bothered to pick up for your son?” she demanded of his voicemail. “Call me. It’s important.” Hanging up, she slipped the phone back into her pocket and returned to Scott.

*~*

Stiles moved slowly, inching across the unit in a series of measured steps, shooting worried glances as his dad, checking to see if he was about to get caught. They’d been at the hospital for what felt like an eternity, waiting. Just waiting and waiting and waiting. They’d waited for the doctors to finish helping Scott, getting him to breath properly and stitching up his leg. They’d waited for Scott to ‘rest,’ as apparently asthma attacks and dog attacks were not just mentally, but also physically draining. He’d been forced to wait in the hallway while his Dad took Scott’s statement. Now, he was supposed to be waiting for his dad to talk to Scott’s mom. There was only so much waiting a person could handle, however, and Stiles had reached his limit.

Taking advantage of his dad’s distraction and turned back, he slipped quietly into Scott’s cubicle-like room. His classmate was practically sitting up in the bed, it was set so high. The blankets were pulled up and tucked loosely around him. He was staring off to the side, a sad vacant look on his face. Stiles knew that look; his dad had been wearing it a lot recently.

“Dude!” he kind-of whispered as he crouched down beside Scott’s bed, trying to stay out of sight of prying parental eyes. “That was the grossest thing I’d ever seen! Can I see your leg? How many stitches did they put in? What was it like riding in the ambulance?”

Scott blinked at questions, but otherwise didn’t respond, which Stiles took as indication to keep talking. “I heard my dad say that they might have to put down that dog. The dog warden said that he has a record. Did you know there was such a thing as a dog warden? Like a cop for dogs-”

“It killed Roxy,” Scott interrupted quietly, as fresh tears streamed down his stained face.

Stiles blinked rapidly, completely derailed by the comment. “Was that your dog’s name?” He asked tentatively.

Scott nodded in reply.

“I don’t-,” he stammered, unsure of what to say. “Deputy Cross took her to the vet,” he eventually said, hoping, though he wasn’t sure why, that that knowledge might make Scott feel better.

“Why would they take her to the vet?” Scott asked, sounding confused. “My mom said she didn’t make it.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles answered truthfully, “maybe they just needed a place to take her body, like the morgue at the hospital.”

A silence settled between them, one that left Stiles fidgeting at the awkwardness. He’d never been a big fan of silence, had always felt a need to fill it with meaningless chatter. His house was silent all the time now. He hated it, but for some reason, he had no words to fill it. He cleared his throat, reaching for something, anything to say, unsure of why, but suddenly desperately needing to make Scott feel better. “My mom died,” he finally offered. “So, I uh- I know how much it sucks.”

Scott sniffed, wiping his tears and nose on the blanket. “I’m sorry about your mom,” he said quietly, his voice cracking on the words.

Stiles turned away, embarrassed as tears of his own slid down his cheeks. “I’m sorry about your dog.”

“Stiles,” his dad barked, startling both of them at the interruption. “I thought-” He stopped suddenly, eyes softening as he took in the two of them. “I thought I told you to stay in the waiting room?”

“I did,” Stiles argued weakly, “or at least I tried to.”

“It’s ok,” Scott’s mom assured him, giving him a tight lipped smile as she sat on the edge of the bed and took Scott’s hand. “It’s just really important that Scott doesn’t get upset right now.”

“Can we go home now?” Scott asked hopefully, turning to his mom and leaning into her side.

“Not right now, Sweetheart,” she told him as she carded her fingers through his hair. “We’re going to stay a while longer, until we’re sure you won’t have another attack.”

“Well, um, we’ll go ahead and get out of your hair,” his dad stated. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know more about the dog and its owner.”

“Thank you,” Scott’s mom replied.

“No problem. Stiles,” his dad called, drawing his attention. “Let’s go.”

“Can I stay?” Stiles asked tentatively, surprisingly himself with the question.

“No,” the Sheriff replied firmly, but not harshly. “Not today.”

Stiles nodded, before stepping away from the bed. “Bye, Scott,” he called, waving to the other boy before following his dad out of the room.


	3. Stiles’s 13th Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Scott suffers a severe attack during Stiles’s 13th birthday party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to all of the amazing folks on the WTH and Teen Wolf Legacy discords, especially [ultralillylove](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultralillylove/pseuds/ultralillylove) and [ loubug](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loubug/pseuds/loubug) for being my Teen Wolf beta readers. Without you this story would not be possible.
> 
> Special thanks to [coffee_mage](https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffee_mage/pseuds/coffee_mage) for all the help as my beta reader and medical advisor! You are beyond amazing.

Melissa knocked lightly as she leaned against the open door jamb to Scott’s room, the sound causing him to glance up from his packing.

“Hey, Mom,” he greeted, as he continued to gather up the items he had laid out on his bed and shove them into his overnight bag.

“Are you sure you’ve got everything?” she asked casually. The question was more of a conversation starter than anything else; he was more than capable of packing on his own.

It bothered her sometimes, how independent he was, so much more than any 12-year old had a right to be. Part of it, she knew, was necessary because of his asthma. He had to be responsible enough to keep track of his symptoms and know when and how to take his medications. He had to be mature enough to be upfront about how he was feeling, to be honest about when he was managing and when he needed help.

That wasn’t to say that he didn’t have support. She constantly reminded and coached, requiring him to check in when she wasn’t home and making him review his asthma diary with her when she was. Mrs. Lafferty, the school nurse, was invaluable when he was at school, helping to make sure that his teachers knew and abided by his action plan and allowed any necessary accommodations. The vast majority of it, however, fell on him. It was an unfortunate burden, but one he carried well.

There was another piece to it, however, one that had nothing to do with his medical condition. One that she couldn’t help but feel was, at least in part, her fault. Raf was almost completely out of their lives now, his involvement declining steadily after she threw him out of the house, until it was essentially non-existent. She told herself that it was better this way, that severing ties was easier than dealing with the pain of disappointment. While she truly believed that they were happier without him, she feared that, without a father, Scott was being forced to grow up faster than he should have to. 

“Yep,” Scott answered, startling her out of her reverie and drawing her back to the room.

“Socks?” she asked, unable to resist nagging him goodheartedly. “Underwear? PJs?”

“Yes, yes, and yes.”

“Toothbrush? Deodorant?”

“Yes, Mom!” he whined, but she could see him fighting a smile.

“What about your inhalers? Your nebulizer?”

He lifted said inhalers in response before shoving one in his bag and the other in his pocket.

“What about the nebulizer?”

Scott hesitated. He glanced at her, his face turning red, before looking away. “No,” he muttered so softly she almost didn’t hear him.

“Scott-”

“I don’t see why I have to take it,” he interrupted, trying to argue, though it came out more as pleading.

Melissa furrowed her brow, confused by his unusual resistance. “Scott. Sweetheart. You know it can get worse at night, which is why it's part of our deal. When you sleep over, you have to take all your medications.”

“I know, but- I’ll have my rescue inhaler.” He paused, misery written clearly on his face. “I just don’t see why I need both?.”

Melissa frowned, pushing off the door frame and going to sit on the bed. “Sit,” she instructed. He hesitated, clearly wanting to refuse, before finally relenting. “What’s going on?” she asked. “You’ve never fought me on this before. Stiles and his dad know the drill. What’s different this time?”

He looked down, picking at a non-existent spot on his jeans. “I don’t want them to see,” he mumbled.

“Who don’t you want to see?” she asked, dreading his answer, but needing to know the truth.

“Everyone,” he replied, refusing to meet her eye. “I just- it makes me look so stupid.”

“Sweetheart,” she asserted, “look at me.” She waited until he did before asking, “Are you having problems at school? Are you being bullied?”

“No!” he stated vehemently, making her doubt the truth of the statement. “I mean-” he backpedaled, his tone quieting in a mixture of shame and discomfort, “not really. They just- make fun of us sometimes.”

The admission served to both enrage and break her heart. “I see,” she replied, before pausing for a moment to process the information. “You know,” she started, trying to instill as much love and support as she could into her words, “bullies- people that like to harass and make fun of others, they usually do it because there’s something going on in their lives that they don’t know how to deal with. They’re angry and frustrated, so they take it out on someone else. It doesn’t make it right and it doesn’t make it easier to deal with, but- you need to know that it doesn’t have anything to do with you. Or Stiles. Not really.”

“Yeah, but- we’re easy targets.”

“You can be,” she agreed, though it pained her to do so, “because you’re not perceived as ‘normal,’ but you don’t have to be. Bullies- feed off of their victims reactions. It gives them a sense of power and control. If you don’t give them what they want, then it's no longer worth their while. You just need to- refuse to play the game.”

He didn’t say anything, just turned away to stare down at his lap.

“None of these kids are going to be there tonight are they? It’s just going to be you and Stiles, maybe a few others?" She didn’t imagine that Stiles would invite their antagonists, but she wanted to be sure.

“There’s going to be four of us all together.”

“How many are staying the night?”

“Just me.”

That both did and did not surprise her. Scott and Stiles had become extremely close over the past three years, so much so that at times she worried about their apparent disinterest in forming friendships with any of their other peers. The fact that Stiles had invited two other people was promising. That Scott was the only one sleeping over...well, she could be grateful for babysteps.

“Do I know the other two?” she asked, keeping her tone casual as she continued to pry, trying to get to the real root of the issue.

“Harley,” he answered, “and a girl I don’t know. Her name’s Heather. Stiles wanted them to sleep over as well, but the Sheriff said ‘no,’” Scott offered, his face reddening a little at the admission.

“I see,” she repeated, unable to stop her lips from curling into a knowing smile. “Well, let me assure you that using your nebulizer does not make you look stupid. Even if it did,” she continued, halting his interruption, “the likelihood that you would need it is slim. Right?”

“Yeah,” he groused.

“What was your peak flow this afternoon?”

“Eighty-one.”

Melissa suppressed a grimace, eighty-one wasn’t great, but at least it was still green. “No other symptoms?”

“No, I feel pretty good.”

“Ok. Then I say, based on how you’re feeling now, that this is what will happen. You’re going to go to this party, but you’re going to take all your medications with you like we agreed. And,” she stressed, cutting off his protests, “all you’re going to worry about is having a great time. You’ve got no symptoms and there’s no reason to think that you’ll develop any later tonight, but you’ll have everything with you just in case. Right?”

“Right,” he agreed begrudgingly.

She smiled reassuringly at him before brushing his hair back and leaning over to kiss his forehead. “All right. Then, I’m going to head downstairs. Let me know when you’re ready to leave.”

“Ok.” Scott answered, his tone still depressed, but she was confident he’d bounce back soon.

She rubbed her hand soothingly down his back, before standing up and leaving his room.

*~*

“Happy birthday, Dude,” Scott greeted, as he took Stiles's hand, the two running through their custom handshake, which ended in a brief hug.

“Thanks,” Stiles replied, returning the embrace, before stepping back and ushering Scott into the house. “I’m so glad you got here early because-“

“Hello, Scott,” Sheriff Stilinski interrupted as he emerged from the kitchen, his tone friendly but holding a slight edge to it. The one it always held. The one that said he never fully trusted that Stiles, and by default Scott, wasn’t up to something.

“Hey, Sheriff,” Scott returned, smiling awkwardly, before turning back to Stiles and gesturing with his bags. “Where should I put these?”

“We’re putting gifts on the dining room table,” the Sheriff answered. “Why don’t you put your overnight bag in Stiles’s room for now.”

“Ok,” Scott replied, as he moved into the dining room. A cake box was set out on the table, along with an assortment of chips, plates, and napkins. The items looked out of place where case files normally littered the surface. He set his gift bag on the table, adding to the small pile from the Sheriff, before returning to his friend.

“Come on!” Stiles called, slapping Scott’s arm, before bounding up the stairs. “Dad said we could pull out the sleeper-sofa after Heather and Harley leave,” Stiles told him, practically bouncing in excitement as they entered his bedroom, “so we can stay up all night watching movies.”

Scott laughed as he dumped his bag onto Stiles’s bed. “Let me guess,” he teased as he perched on the edge of the mattress, “you’ve got a Star Wars marathon planned.” 

“Dude! That was so going to be my plan, but then I found this.”

Scott caught the DVD that was abruptly launched at him, though he barely managed to do so before it smacked him in the face. He couldn’t stop the blush that crept up his neck as he took in the scantily clad woman with her exposed breast on the cover of ‘Blue Ecstacy.’ “Is this...is this what I think it is?” he whispered.

“If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking, then yes.”

Scott glanced nervously over his shoulder at the door, suddenly alarmed at how wide-open it was. “Where did you get this?” he asked, his voice practically trembling with a mixture of nervousness, excitement, and embarrassment.

Stiles shrugged. “I found it snooping around my dad’s stuff in the basement.”

Scott stared in disbelief, mouth gaping open like a fish. “Why were you snooping through your dad’s stuff?”

Stiles gave him a look that spoke to how momumentally stupid he found the question. “I always snoop through my dad’s stuff. Where do you think half my stuff comes from? Half my stuff is or rather was his stuff.”

“Boys!” the Sheriff yelled from downstairs startling Scott so badly he nearly fell off the bed.

“Hide it!” he whispered harshly as he fumbled to shove the porno back at Stiles.

“The girls are here!” the Sheriff continued.

“Ok, Dad!” Stiles yelled back as he took the DVD from Scott. “Dude,” he admonished softly, “you need to relax or you’re going to blow the whole thing.”

“Right. No. Sorry.” Scott stuttered. “I just,” he took a breath, attempting to calm his nerves. “I just wasn’t expecting that.”

Stiles looked at him, eyebrows raised in questioning disbelief. “Scott, buddy, breathe. Take a hit of your inhaler if you have to, but just relax.”

“Yeah,” Scott replied, shaking his head at his own ridiculousness. “I’m good,” he said, assuring not only Stiles, but also himself.

“Boys!” the Sheriff hollered again, hints of irritation coloring his tone.

“Coming!” Stiles yelled back, stashing the DVD under his bed and leading Scott back downstairs.

*~*

After several hours packed with the likes of “I am Legend,” “Superbad,” and way too much Mario Kart, compounded with all the pizza, chips, pop, and cake they could eat, Harley and Heather were made to say their goodbyes. Their departure left Scott and Stiles to fend for themselves, armed with a second batch of movies and a massive sugar high.

“Are we really going to watch this?” Scott asked from where he sat on one end of the couch sofa, leaning over to toss his inhaler into his bag.

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed as he knelt down in front of the TV. “Definitely yes! Why?” he asked, suddenly unsure. “Don’t you want to?”

Maybe Scott was right, maybe this wasn’t something you were supposed to do with a friend. Maybe this was more of an alone activity, but- he really didn’t want to watch it alone, at least, not this first time. What did that say about him? What did it mean that he wanted to watch porn with his totally male, totally straight, best friend? 

“Well, like, your Dad’s going to be just upstairs.” Scott replied, pulling him out of his spiraling thoughts. “What if he comes down to check up on us?”

“First off, when has he ever bothered to check up on us? Secondly, we won’t watch it right away. We’ll wait until like...2 am or something, after he’s sure to have gone to bed.”

“So, what you’re saying,” his dad interjected from where he magically appeared in the doorway, “is that I definitely need to do a 2 am walk-through?”

“What? No! Dad-” Stiles stopped, his chin dropping to his chest in defeat, knowing there was no sense in even trying. They were good and busted. “It’s nothing bad,” he argued. “If anything it's completely normal.”

“Surprisingly, I don’t find that admission all that comforting. So, what do you say you do this completely ‘normal’ activity some other time? Preferably, when I’m not in charge of chaperoning,” he deadpanned as he held his hand out expectantly.

Stiles hesitated for a moment, before releasing a long suffering sigh. Pushing himself to his feet, he stood up and passed the porno over to his father. His dad took a long look at the cover before turning back to them. He opened his mouth, then closed it, before shaking his head. “I’m not even going to ask,” he stated, raising his hands in a gesture of defeat, as he backed out of the room.

“Sorry,” Scott apologized once Stiles’s dad had gone, the words annoyingly sincere. “I didn’t realize he was so close.”

“It’s alright,” Stiles replied honestly, “we’ll just have to move on to plan B.”

“Plan B?” Scott asked, leerily. “What is plan B?”

“I don’t know. Yet!” Stiles replied as he returned to the stack of DVDs. “But as soon as I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

*~*

Noah startled awake to the tune of Stiles roughly shaking him and calling his name. “Stiles?” he asked, without any trace of grogginess, his son’s evident panic and adrenaline pushing him wide awake. “What’s wrong?” 

“Scott wants us to take him to the emergency room,” Stiles croaked out, breathless from fear and supposedly running up the stairs.

Noah was out of bed and half dressed before Stiles even finished his sentence. Years of on-calls and late-calls having made him seasoned at the task for dressing quickly and efficiently. “Where’s he at?” he asked as he ushered Stiles out of the room and towards the stairwell.

“He’s still on the couch, taking another breathing treatment.”

“How many has he had?”

“He, uh,” Stiles stuttered, “he took his inhaler once. No! Twice. He took it two times. When he didn’t feel better, he took a uh, a pill, and then he used his nebulizer. Now, he’s using it again.”

Noah tried to recall the details of the action plan that was hanging on their fridge, as he hurried downstairs. He knew that Scott was to use his rescue inhaler or his nebulizer every twenty minutes to every four hours depending on the severity of his symptoms. That he was on his fourth treatment spoke to how serious the attack was and to how poorly he was responding to the medication.

As Noah rushed into the living room, he found Scott sitting on the edge of the sofa-couch, back ram-rod straight. Even from a distance, he could see his entire torso heaving with the effort to pull air into his lungs. “Stiles,” he instructed as he crossed the room, “get my wallet and my keys and go start the car.

Kneeling in front of Scott, Noah looked the boy over. The muscles in his neck and shoulders were pulled tight, straining with the effort to breath, and he was clutching the edge of the mattress so hard his knuckles were white. “Ok, Scott, we’re going to get you out of here,” Noah assured him, trying to instill as much calm as he could into the words. “Can you walk to the car?”

Scott nodded, jerkily, his eyes wide and frightened, as he climbed unsteadily to his feet.

“Easy,” Noah instructed as he reached out to steady the boy with one hand, while he picked up the nebulizer with the other. Keeping a firm grip on Scott’s arm, he tried to maneuver them around the couch.

“What can I do?” Stiles asked breathily from where he’d reappeared in the doorway.

“Grab this,” Noah instructed, thrusting the small device at his son before simply scooping Scott into his arms.

The two of them hurried out of the house and down to the car. “Back seat,” Noah ordered, waiting for Stiles to climb in before maneuvering Scott in after him. Once he had the boys situated he climbed into the front, flicked on the lights and sirens, and sped off. Picking up his CB, he radioed dispatch.

“Dispatch, this is Unit 1. I am onroute to Beacon Memorial with a 12-year-old boy having a severe asthma attack. I need paramedics to intercept as soon as possible.”

“Copy that, Unit 1. What is your location?”

“I’m on Woodbine Lane, heading to Beacon Memorial via Beachwood and Mitchell, running full Code 3.”

“Copy that, Unit 1. Paramedics on route.”

“Dad!” Stiles cried frantically from the backseat, “Dad, he’s freaking out!”

Noah glanced in the rearview mirror to see Scott pulling the mask off his face and pushing himself backwards up the seat. “Scott,” he ordered, “you need to calm down. Stiles, try to talk to him.”

“I don’t-what do I say?”

“Anything,” Noah encouraged, “just try to get him to calm down.”

Though he could hear Stiles babbling frantically in the backseat, frequent glances in the rearview mirror showed it to be ineffective. Scott was still pressed high against the seat, practically pawing at the window. Noah considered pulling over, but honestly there was nothing he could do. What little first aid training he had didn’t cover this. Thankfully, the decision was taken out of his hands, as he caught the sound of the ambulance siren in the distance.

He slowed down fractionally, waiting for the ambulance to pull over before crossing the road and pulling behind the bus. He slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a jarring stop that had the two boys slamming into back of the front seats.

“He’s here!” Noah called to the paramedics as he climbed out of the car and opened the back door. Scott fought as he was pulled from the backseat, pushing against Noah’s arms and chest, though his struggles were weak and uncoordinated.

“Sit down with him here,” Riding, one of the EMTs, instructed, pointing to the edge of the road, where it was still flat. “Press his back against your chest to keep him upright.”

Noah quickly complied, lowering them both down to the ground, and maneuvering into position. Scott, however, refused to cooperate, continuing to thrash feebly and push them away.

“Hold his arms down,” Riding instructed, as he attempted to replace the nasal prongs Scott had just pulled out of his nose. “What’s his name?”

“Scott,” Noah answered, as he adjusted his position, latching onto each of Scott’s wrists and pulling them loosely across his body.

“Scott, we need you to calm down so we can help you. Ok?” Riding instructed. “Stop fighting us.” Scott, unfortunately, didn’t respond. “Let’s push 40 mg of ketamine, IV if we can.”

“I’ll hold him.” Marsh, another paramedic, said before taking Scott’s arm and turning it to expose the inside of his elbow. As he held Scott in place, Riding pushed a needle in.

“Got it!” Seconds after the proclamation, Scott went limp in his arms, sending Noah into a panic.

“What happened? Is he alright?”

“It’s ok. We just gave him a sedative,” Marsh assured him as they continued to work, replacing the nasal prongs and inserting an IV catheter. “Do you know what medications he’s taken?”

“He took albuterol twice through an inhaler and twice with a nebulizer. Stiles said he took a pill, so probably, uh-” Noah pressed his lips together and shook his head, as he struggled to remember the name. “It’s a steroid,” he finally told him, unable to offer more.

“Prednisone?”

“Yes!” Noah practically exclaimed, “prednisone.”

“His respiratory rate is decreasing,” Riding announced, “ETCO2’s rising. We’re going to have to bag him.”

Marsh moved quickly, placing the mask over Scott’s mouth, and compressing the bag gently. “He's really tight,” he said as he worked, “I’ve got almost no air movement. Lets push 0.2 mg of epi.”

Staring at the monitor the EMTs had attached to Scott, Noah watched with bated breath, as the little triangles skipped across the screen. He didn’t know what it meant, only that it wasn’t good.

He’d seen Scott have an attack before, had seen him struggle to catch his breath, had heard him wheeze and cough. Hell, Noah had even watched as he was rushed off in an ambulance after being ripped into by a dog. However, nothing he’d seen before compared to this, and all he could think about was how he was going to explain to Melissa that her son had died in his care.

“We’ve got some respiratory effort,” Marsh announced, just as the triangles changed shape, morphing into what Noah could only describe as shark fins.

“Yeah,” Riding agreed. “Alright, let’s move him.”

The EMTs quickly lifted Scott’s limp body from Noah’s arms and secured it onto the stretcher, before loading him into the back of the ambulance.

“You ok to follow us, Sheriff?” Riding asked, slamming the doors shut as Marsh climbed into the back with Scott.

“Yeah,” Noah replied, distractedly. “Yeah, I’ll be right behind you.”

Riding nodded before jogging to the front of the ambulance.

Noah waited until they had gotten turned around and were underway before turning back to the cruiser. It was then that he remembered Stiles. “Shit,” he muttered under his breath before hustling to the open back door. Crouching down, he looked inside to see Stiles pressed against the far door, knees pulled up to his chest, and tears flowing down his cheeks.

“Is he gonna die?” he asked, his voice cracking on the last word.

“No, no,” Noah assured him as he lowered himself onto the seat. “He was already starting to get better when they put him on the ambulance.”

“I don’t understand why that happened,” Stiles said as tears started flowing anew down his cheeks. “He did everything he was supposed to do, so why did that happen?”

“I don’t know,” Noah confessed, “it’s just something that happens sometimes.”

“But he goes to the doctor’s so much, shouldn’t they know how to fix it?”

“They’re trying,” Noah assured him. “They’re trying really hard to stop it from happening, but some things aren’t easy to fix or can’t be fixed.”

“Like Mom.”

“Like Mom.” A moment of silence stretched out between them, before Noah reached out and patted him on the knee. “Come on, I’m sure Scott will want his best friend to be there when he wakes up.”

Stiles nodded, before slowly unfolding himself and opening the door. As the two of them climbed in the front he said, “We have to call Melissa.”

“I know,” Noah said, as dread twisted in his gut. “I’ll call her once we get moving.”

*~*

Melissa drew in a deep breath when she saw Scott flutter his eyes open, a sign that the sedation was finally starting to wear off. It had been almost an hour since they’d brought him in, with a PAS score of 9, and had started him on a continuous albuterol nebulizer. He had responded to the epi the paramedics had administered and the steroids, but he still wasn’t out of the woods.

“Hey, Sweetheart,” she murmured as she stood up from the chair beside his bed. Leaning over, she kissed his forehead, mindful not to displace the nebulizer mask, as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“I’m- sorry,” he forced out, unable to speak in more than short choppy phrases.

“Sshh,” she consoled him, “try not to talk, ok. Just focus on your breathing.”

“Did- everything,” he told her, eyes drifting shut as he struggled to fight off the lingering effects of the ketamine.

“I know,” she assured him, “it wasn’t your fault. Stiles and the Sheriff told me what happened.”

“Ruined- Stiles’s- birthday,” he choked, as tears started to stream down his face and his chest started to heave in agitation.

“Scott, honey, you need to calm down,” Melissa instructed, as she adjusted the bed into an even more upright position after hitting the call button. “Try to take slow deep breaths.”

“Whatcha need, Melissa?” Naomi asked as she entered the room.

“He’s tightening back up.”

“Call Dr. Crumpton!” Naomi called out to the nurses’ station, before turning back to Scott. “What’s going on, Buddy? You were doing so good.”

“He started getting upset,” Melissa answered as she gripped Scott’s hand.

“Yeah, we can’t have that can we, Scott?” Naomi asked, as she started checking his vitals. “Make sure he stays upright,” she instructed Melissa as she lowered the bed back down. “It’s really important that you try to stay calm, ok?” she told Scott, as she listened to his chest. “Focus on taking slow deep breaths.”

Scott nodded, as his grip tightened on Melissa’s hand.

At that moment, Dr. Crumpton entered the room. “What have we got?”

“PAS score’s up two points. He’s got both inspiratory and expiratory wheezing and retractions, most likely triggered by emotional distress.”

Crumpton nodded as he listened briefly to Scott’s lungs. “Let’s push another round of epi, 0.2 mg and increase the albuterol dosage to 15 mg/hr for the next hour. If he doesn’t improve, we’ll consider IV magnesium sulfate.”

*~*

Stiles knocked lightly from where he lingered in the doorway to the hospital room, causing Scott to look up from where he was tying his shoes. “Hey,” Stiles greeted tentatively, feeling an awkwardness he rarely felt around his best friend.

“Hey,” Scott replied quietly, seemingly just as uncomfortable.

“Sorry, for not coming in earlier,” Stiles told him, resisting the urge to bit at his fingernails, “but they weren’t letting anyone besides your Mom come back, and then they admitted you and-”

“It’s ok.” Scott interrupted, giving him what was probably meant to be a reassuring smile, “I- wasn’t really great company anyway.” A heavy silence hung in the air for a moment, before Scott continued. “My mom said you guys waited around for like- two hours, and then you practically begged your dad to let you stay. I know it couldn’t have been fun, so- thanks. It means a lot.”

Stiles shrugged as a smile pulled at his lips, feeling some of the tension lift. “At least you picked an uneventful night to almost die. I didn’t have to witness any gruesome stabbings or gunshot wounds.”

Scott laughed briefly, before the sound quickly morphed into a mild coughing fit.

Stiles immediately took a step forward, hand outstretched towards his friend. “Scott?” he asked worriedly.

“I’m ok,” Scott told him as the fit subsided.

“You sure?” Stiles asked, wanting to believe but unable to shake the image of Scott climbing up the seat of the cruiser, gasping for breath.

“Yeah,” Scott assured him. “I’m still having symptoms,” he explained, “but they’re mild enough that I can go home.”

“That’s safe?” Stiles asked in disbelief.

“Yeah, they do it all the time.” Stiles blinked, at the confession, horrified at the thought that Scott was going home before he was completely better. “Anyway,” Scott continued, as if he’d just admitted a terrible truth. “I thought you would have jumped at the chance to see those things.”

“Well,” Stiles stuttered, struggling for a moment to place the thread of the conversation. “Yeah, except for the blood and stuff. You know I can’t handle the gross. At least, not outside of photos. Are you sure you should be going home?” he asked, unable to let the matter slide.

Scott smiled reassuringly. “I’m sure, or well, they’re sure. The doctors I mean.” He frowned then, suddenly leaning back over to tie his shoes, avoiding looking at Stiles. “Sorry, I ruined your birthday.”

Stiles scoffed. “Really? If anyone should be apologizing for that it should be my dad. He’s the one who wouldn’t let the girls sleep over and he confiscated my porno.”

“His porno,” Scott countered, unable to resist the tease.

“Semantics.”

“Hey, boys,” Melissa called as she poked her head in the door. “Scott, I’ve got you all checked out, so if you’re ready.”

Scott nodded, pushing off the bed as he slipped his jacket on. Stiles watched, anxiously biting at his fingernails as Scott sat in wheelchair. The thought that they were leaving still bothered him, but at least he could find comfort in the fact that both he and Melissa would be there.

“Alright,” Melissa declared, as she handed Scott a plastic bag full of his clothes and medications, “let's get you two home.”

“Can we stop and get breakfast on the way?” Stiles asked hopefully. “I’m starving.”

“I’ll cook breakfast for you when we get home,” Melissa replied as she pushed Scott down the hall, “I’m not risking stopping somewhere Scott might encounter a trigger.”

“Can you make the Mexican scrambled eggs?” Stiles asked excitedly as they made their way into the elevator.

Melissa laughed lightly, “we’ll see,” she told him as she ushered them to the car.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and Kudos are always appreciated!


End file.
